CALIFORNIA PARADISE
Chapter Thirty-Four
When July hit in 1919, the Dawson household
fell into a frenzy.
A massive heat wave was underway all
throughout California and everyone was decked in the thinnest white material on
hand when Jayvelin’s fifth birthday party was being planned.
The little girl sat in a soft white dress
with sliced sleeves and reaching just a little past her bare knees. The buckles
on her white sandals caught the sunlight filtering in through the open window
of the room. The ribbon in her hair loosened as she whipped her head to look at
her mother discussing the decorations for the party. The silky wisps of her
hair that escaped immediately stuck to the base of her neck and she swatted at
them as if they were flies.
Her mother finished talking and came over to
her. She kneeled down and placed her cold hand underneath Jayvelin’s warm chin,
tilting her head towards her.
"You okay?" Rose asked.
"It’s hot."
"I know."
"Can I go swimming later?"
Rose smiled at the question. Jayvelin had
been born a natural swimmer and would live in the water if given the chance.
"Maybe later. Now, I want you to get
your daddy and have him feed you."
*****
Jayvelin lay down on her bed, exhausted. It
was nearing eleven at night, and her curls were still damp with water from her
bath. She was tired from head to toe from swimming in the lake for so long.
Rose pulled the single, thin sheet to her
chin as a blanket and kissed her good night. Then Jack sat down on the bed,
pulling her close to him.
"Do you want a story?" he asked.
With the last strength in her body, she
nodded her yes.
"Okay. What do you want to hear?"
"About you," Jayvelin murmured.
Rose leaned against him as he began his
story.
Jack’s Story
I lived in this big house in the best
place in the whole entire world. The house was about eight times smaller than
this one, but I loved it with all my heart. It was the prettiest blue you could
imagine, with a peaked roof, three stories, and a million of those long, narrow
windows. And all my friends would come over and we would trek up to the attic,
which was the third story. When we were real young, like around Jacob’s age, it
was kind of like a little nursery. You know, like the kind we have now. When I
was your age, Jayvelin, we took all the baby stuff out and started getting
really neat toys. God, we loved it. Then, when I was like, ten, we turned it
into one of those corny, no-girls-allowed clubhouses. That lasted all the way
until I was thirteen, and then we just kind of hung out there. We didn’t have
that much time, though, what with school and having all those chores around the
house.
You wouldn’t believe the kind of chores I
had. But my parents loved me, and I was willing to do anything for them.
The worst day of my life, and I remember
it as clear as ice, was in November, when I was fifteen. I was playing baseball
in this little field we had behind the schoolhouse. And along comes running my
neighbor since before I can remember. God, I knew her for fifteen years and now
I can’t even remember her name. But I remember what she looked like. She was
kind of old, like in her sixties, but her skin was real smooth and pretty. She
had chestnut hair, and even though it was mostly gray it looked real nice because
she kept it in this really neat bun that had a death grip on all the hair, so
it was never messed up.
Anyway, she sure didn’t look too neat
running towards me on that field. Her face was blotchy from crying, and the
death grip bun had come loose and her hair flew all over the place because it
was so windy. She was screaming but it was incoherent because she was sobbing
so much.
When she finally got close enough, I
braced her by the shoulders and asked, "What is it? What’s wrong?"
"Oh, my poor, poor Jack."
"I don’t want your pity; just tell me
what happened."
"There was a fire. At the grammar
school across town. Your dear parents were taking a stroll and watched it
catch. And--oh, I don’t really know the details, but I guess your father knew
there were still children inside, and the brave heart rushed in. Anyway, that’s
what Ms. Failing, who saw it all, says. Then, when he didn’t come out for a
while, your mother decided to go in to help him. There were more people
gathered there by then, and they tried to talk her out of it and tell her the
fire department was on its way, but she lashed out at them. She said there was
no time. She rushed in. Ms. Failing says just seconds later a burning piece of
furniture collapsed, blocking the doorway." Here she had paused. My hands
fell away from her shoulders and fell, useless, at my sides. "I’m sorry,
Jack."
At this part of his story, Jack looked down.
He looked down at his daughter, now in a deep sleep.
"I’m glad she wasn’t awake to hear this.
I don’t know what I was thinking..." He got up to leave, but Rose pulled
him back down.
"Continue the story."
Okay. So my parents were gone. I felt
completely alone, which was just complete bullshit because any one of my
parents’ friends would have taken me in. And they offered, too. But I just
couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stay in that town where I had grown up and loved
them for so long. Just hours after the memorial service, I packed my bags and
left. I hadn’t told anyone I had planned this, but no one was surprised when
they watched me head out to the train station.
I was a fifteen-year-old kid out on his
own. I found my way to Italy, which I had always dreamed about. Then I went to
DC. There, I made friends and stayed for almost a year. But, as I had told them
from the start, I was a wandering soul and had to leave. So I traveled all
around. I told myself it was to grasp my future; fulfill my dream. But it was
wasn’t. I was looking for a reason, an explanation. I wanted to know how such a
horrific thing could happen to people as good as my parents. I did a good job
of convincing myself otherwise, though.
I arrived in Santa Monica on my eighteenth
birthday. By then, I was positive I was there solely to live out my destiny.
It’s kind of like I convinced myself I was happy and doing what I wanted to do.
At nineteen I finally made it to Paris.
But even that wasn’t near what I imagined. I’d wanted to sleep in the gutters
of a beautiful city that was illuminated from inside out. I wanted
perfume-filled air and sidewalk cafes with true artists inside. Instead, I got
a completely dark little non-room next to a tiny bakery that true artists may
or may not have begged for the week-old bread crusts from.
I traveled around Europe for a little bit
after that. Always disappointed with all I found, but telling myself how jovial
I was about it all.
At twenty, I had a few friends, few
possessions, and I was determined to go on. I knew that this is what I had to
do. Roam the world. And someday, even if I had to wait until I was a hundred
years old, I would find whatever it was I was seeking.
In April I found out what it was. Love.
True love. Pure and good.
But it was threatened, and I fought for
it, and in the end, you know what happened? I got it. And now I’m whole again.
Rose kissed Jack passionately, her cheek wet
with the tears.
"Oh, I don’t want your pity."
"I-I’ve just never heard you tell it
with such emotion. Jack, I know that there are a million details that you left
out, yet even with all that you said...I can’t imagine such a thing."
"But didn’t you get it?"
"Get what?"
"The torture saved me. I was roaming and
seeking because I was so miserable. If I hadn’t been hurt, I wouldn’t have been
happy. You can’t find peace and solitude if you’ve never experienced screams
and chaos."
She smiled, and they both led each other to
bed.